


(Acid) Rainfall

by ThinkoftheWindandSun



Series: Prowl Week [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23754763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkoftheWindandSun/pseuds/ThinkoftheWindandSun
Summary: Some days, when the toll was too high, he would go out on the balcony. And he would look out upon his failures.
Series: Prowl Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709635
Kudos: 19
Collections: Prowl Week





	(Acid) Rainfall

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: i do not own transformers or any of its variations.
> 
> Prowl Week Day 2: High

It was on the tip of his tongue. 

The promise. 

The lie.

His optics panned over the horizon. Over smoke and debris and all the greyed out frames that once were his friends. Something cold and rotted had taken root in his spark chamber. A strangling, twisting thing that seemed to be squeezing the very life out of him with every passing click.

He leaned his elbows on the balcony. Stars had become black holes. The moon a sickle as deadly as the human's reaper. It loomed high in the darkened sky. A threat.

Smells of charred metal and burnt rubber had chased most everyone inside. Not him. Not yet. He would be the last. And only after the coming storm. This he owed them. The dead he had lost.

There was a weight in the air. A humidity that promised acid rain. The kind of storm that would wash away all their sins. Melt them down to slag. So that they could start anew tomorrow. A clean slate made from the dead.

“It won't be long now,” he said.

The ghosts that hovered at his shoulders said nothing. Their stares bored into him. Judgement weighed upon his every spoken word. His every promise and every lie. One and the same more often than not. 

Second in Command of an army and keeper of the dead. Or perhaps the one the dead kept. It certainly felt as though they took more than they gave. Hollowing out his plating and squeezing his spark to nothing. Dragging him after them as though he owed it. For all that he knew, he might.

And maybe this was what was always meant to come. But it felt hollow and wasted. Like a twelve kilometer drive with the needle on empty. Running on fumes and vapors and prayers to a god he didn’t believe in. Couldn’t afford to believe in.

The first drops of acid hit the ground around him. A soft pattering that belied their dangerous power. An unprepared mech could be eaten through in clicks.

He pulled his tarp tighter about his shoulders, doorwings pressed down tight against his back. Spark fire swirled around his digits. Ghosts pressed kisses to his pedes. Others laid them upon his helm crest.

And this was loyalty. This was suffering and promise and broken sparks. This was his punishment and his due.

This was Cybertron.

Prowl stood in the centre of the storm. And he watched. And he planned.

And he lived.


End file.
